Nashville
 

You already know

The restaurant wasn’t flashy, but it didn’t need to be. Tucked on a quieter street just off the main stretch, it had the kind of warmth Ivy gravitated toward—arched windows strung with soft white lights, dark wood trim, and candlelit tables that made the space feel both elegant and intimate. The hum of low conversation and clinking glasses filled the room, a soundtrack that asked nothing of her, just let her exist in the moment.

She adjusted slightly in her seat, the soft fabric of her dress falling into place as she crossed her ankles beneath the table. It was a pale blush color, vintage-inspired with a scalloped neckline and flutter sleeves, cinched at the waist with a delicate ribbon tie. The skirt hit just below the knee and swayed when she walked—sweet and romantic, but still grown-up enough for a proper date. She’d layered a cream-colored wool coat over it earlier, with a faint herringbone pattern and rounded buttons that felt like something pulled from an old movie. Her boots were brown leather, heeled just enough to feel feminine but practical enough for the day’s wandering. She’d picked them intentionally, like everything else.

This whole day had felt intentional.

They’d started slow—coffee and breakfast in the loft, sharing quiet conversation and small, lingering glances that said more than either of them tried to articulate. The drive into the city was companionable, the kind of ride where the music hummed softly between them and neither felt the need to fill the silence unless they wanted to.

Once in Nashville, they wandered in and out of shops, hands brushing before intertwining completely. They browsed used books and antique postcards, laughed over a record store’s strange genre classifications, and paused at a small park where Ivy had fed a squirrel half her muffin just to make Nate roll his eyes in faux disapproval. They'd stopped for lunch at a sun-drenched café, splitting a sandwich and sipping soup from matching chipped bowls, her cold fingers warming around the mug he passed across the table. Somewhere along the way, he'd found her hand again—and hadn't let go since.

And now, this.

She looked across the table at Nate, who’d already slipped effortlessly into the space like he belonged there—clean lines, steady energy, that low-lidded focus he gave her that still made her stomach pull tight in the best way.

Ivy smiled softly, brushing a finger against the edge of her water glass.

“You know,” she said, her voice low but light with something warmer beneath, “if this is your version of thoughtful, I’m already impressed.”

Her eyes lingered on him—just a beat too long to be casual.

“I mean, I knew you’d show up,” she added with a small, teasing tilt of her head, “but I didn’t expect the whole city to feel quieter just because we walked into it together.”

She tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear and let her boot nudge gently against his under the table, not coy, just connected.

“You make it really easy to forget we’re not the only ones here.”

Nate laughed softly under his breath, the sound more breath than noise, like he hadn’t quite meant for it to escape. He shifted a little in his chair—not away from her, never that—but enough to ground himself, elbows resting lightly on the table, fingers wrapping around his own water glass like it gave him something to hold onto.

“Okay,” he said, smiling, a touch sheepish now. “First of all—high praise coming from you. I’ll be riding that compliment for at least a week.”

His eyes flicked briefly around the room—the glow of the candles, the low hum, the way the place felt tucked in on itself—before settling back on her. And when they did, there was something openly appreciative there. Not hungry. Not calculating. Just… taken.

“I’m glad you like it,” he added, quieter now. “I wanted somewhere that felt like you could breathe. Somewhere that didn’t try too hard.”

He paused, then huffed a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck in a tell he hadn’t bothered hiding all day.

“And for the record, I’m a little terrified,” he admitted. “Not of the city. Or the restaurant. Just—” he gestured vaguely between them, his smile tilting warm and honest, “—of messing this up by pretending I’m cooler than I am.”

Her boot nudging his leg made his attention snap right back to her, his gaze dropping for half a second before lifting again, amused and fond. His foot shifted to meet hers, deliberate but easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re not wrong, though,” he said. “It does get quieter when you’re around. Or maybe I just stop paying attention to everything else.”

He leaned forward just a little, lowering his voice—not to be secretive, but because the moment felt like it deserved it.

“Today’s been… really good,” he said simply. “Like the kind of day you don’t want to overthink because you’re afraid you’ll scare it off.”

A beat.

“And you,” he added, eyes softening as they traced the line of her neckline, the way her hair fell, the way she sat like she belonged anywhere she chose to be, “you look—” He stopped himself, smiled, corrected course. “You look like yourself. Which I think might be my favorite version.”

He lifted his glass slightly in a half-toast, not breaking eye contact.

“To thoughtful days,” he said lightly. “And forgetting we’re not alone.”

And under the table, his foot stayed right where hers was—steady, present, not in a rush to go anywhere.

Ivy tilted her head slightly, the curve of her smile widening as she raised her glass to meet his in the space between them. The clink was quiet but deliberate, like a small agreement signed in candlelight.

“To thoughtful days,” she echoed, her voice soft but laced with a touch of mischief. “And selective amnesia.”

She took a sip, eyes lingering on him over the rim of her glass as she set it back down, fingers trailing for a moment along the base like she wasn’t quite ready to let it go. Then she shifted, just enough to rest her elbow on the table and let her chin settle into her hand, gaze still fixed on him—studying, but not in a way that asked for anything. Just… enjoying him.

“I’ll admit,” she said slowly, “I almost wore the sequined backless dress and four-inch heels that scream I was raised on heartbreak and dirty martinis—but I figured I should probably save that for at least the tenth date.”

Her mouth curved again, a little sly this time.

“You know, once I’m emotionally prepared for your inevitable disillusionment.”

She glanced down at her outfit as if to check it was still what she remembered—a faint blush dress, soft and swishy, paired with her boots and wool coat still draped over the back of her chair.

“But this,” she added, running her fingers over the napkin in her lap, “felt like the right kind of pretty for today. Still me. Just… date-me.”

She looked back up at him then, expression softening into something quieter, sweeter.

“Besides, if anyone’s going to steal the show tonight, it’s definitely you. You look like you stepped straight out of a cologne ad.”

Her foot nudged his again under the table, deliberate but fond.

“And not one of those overly dramatic ones where the man walks alone through a thunderstorm in a tuxedo for no reason. I mean the good kind. The kind I’d buy even if I didn’t need it. Just to keep the box on my dresser.”

She lifted her eyebrows like she was almost accusing him of it—of being that effortlessly good.

Then, a small breath of a laugh escaped her, not sharp but airy, warm. She looked down at the table for a second, brushing a stray crumb off the edge of her plate that wasn’t even hers, like the motion helped ease the feeling blooming just under her skin.

“I’m really glad we did this,” she said quietly, the joke ebbing into something more real. “I didn’t know how much I needed to leave town for a minute until we were already halfway here.”

She didn’t need to say it—the part about small-town eyes, about the weight of being watched even when no one was looking. He knew. He’d known without her asking.

Ivy straightened just enough to lean forward across the table, her hand reaching out—not for dramatic effect, not to make a statement—but simply because she wanted to. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand before resting there, light but present.

“I like this version of us,” she said, the confession delicate but certain. “Just… wandering around, letting the day unfold.”

Then, teasing again—but softer this time:

“Even if you are unfairly handsome and now responsible for resetting my dating bar entirely.”

She smiled into her wineglass as she took another sip, but didn’t break the contact of their hands.

Nate let out a quiet laugh, the kind that started in his chest and slipped out before he could stop it. He glanced down at their hands when she touched him, thumb brushing instinctively over her knuckles like the contact grounded him, then looked back up at her with an expression that was equal parts fond, flattered, and just a little overwhelmed.

“Selective amnesia,” he echoed, lifting his glass again in mock solemnity. “My favorite coping mechanism.”

He listened to her—really listened—his mouth curving more with every word. When she mentioned the sequined dress, he shook his head softly, eyes warm with amusement.

“For the record,” he said, leaning in just slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret, “I would not survive that dress. I’d be a puddle. Publicly. It’d be very embarrassing for both of us.”

His gaze flicked over her outfit—not in a way that undressed her, but in a way that appreciated her. The color, the movement of the fabric, how it fit her like it had been chosen with intention instead of armor.

“But this?” he added, gesturing gently toward her with his free hand. “This is dangerous in a different way. You look… like yourself. Which I’m learning is kind of my weakness.”

Her compliment about the cologne ad made him snort softly, shaking his head.

“Absolutely not,” he said, grinning. “Those guys brood. I would trip over something, spill espresso on my shirt, and then apologize to the camera.”

He nudged her foot back under the table, easy and familiar now.

“But I’ll take the ‘good kind,’” he added. “The kind you keep around. That feels… weirdly perfect.”

When she said she was glad they’d done this, his expression shifted—something softer settling in. He squeezed her hand gently when she leaned forward, his thumb tracing a slow, reassuring line along the back of it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think I needed it too. More than I realized.”

He met her eyes, steady and open.

“And I like this version of us too,” he admitted. “No expectations. No performances. Just… showing up and seeing what happens.”

A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“As for resetting your dating bar,” he added lightly, “I promise I’ll try to live up to it. Or at least trip forward with good intentions.”

He didn’t let go of her hand.

Didn’t want to.

And for once, he wasn’t thinking about what came next—just about how right it felt to be exactly where he was, across a table from her, in a city that felt quieter because she was in it.

Ivy’s lips quirked, one brow lifting. “A puddle, huh?”

She leaned in ever so slightly, letting her voice drop with faux intrigue. “Good to know. Dangerous dress stays in the metaphorical vault until you really earn it. Like… after a plumbing crisis or a flat tire in the snow or, I don’t know, surviving a craft fair with my aunt Lorraine.”

Her eyes sparkled as she said it, teasing, but there was something careful behind the joke. Like she was testing how far she could reach without falling.

Then, quietly, like she couldn’t help herself:
“But thanks. For liking me when I’m not trying to be anything but me.”

Her foot nudged his under the table again, a lazy, familiar brush that felt less like flirting now and more like grounding. Like marking territory. Or maybe just tethering herself to the version of her that got to feel like this.

She tilted her head then, studying him like she was memorizing—not his face, not exactly, but the way he looked at her. Like she was worth slowing down for.

“You do that a lot, you know,” she said softly. “Say things like they’re obvious. Like the world should’ve already handed me this kind of softness.”

She smiled, dry but affectionate. “Bedford didn’t really get that memo.”

Her fingers flexed lightly in his, not pulling away—just moving, like she needed to feel him there in motion, not just presence.

“And don’t make fun of me,” she added quickly, before he could say anything, “but this whole day’s been giving... cozy Hallmark subplot energy. Like the part where the grumpy city guy slowly warms up to the quirky local girl and starts considering a side business in homemade maple syrup.”

She grinned, leaning back slightly just in time to feel the shift in atmosphere—a shadow of movement approaching the table.

They let go of hands instinctively, just as the waiter appeared with their food. Her palm stayed on the table for half a second longer, cooling in the absence of his, before she reached for her napkin and smoothed it over her lap.

“Thank you,” she said to the server with a soft smile, nodding at both plates before casting a quick look Nate’s way.

Then, as the waiter walked off, she lowered her voice again, sly like a secret:
“Okay but if you did trip and spill espresso on your shirt in a commercial, I would still buy it.”

A beat.

“Twice.”

And then—without making a big deal of it—her foot found his again under the table.

Just because she could.

Nate laughed under his breath, shoulders easing as he shook his head, eyes bright with something equal parts amused and touched.

“A craft fair with Aunt Lorraine?” he said solemnly. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair. That’s… heroic, actually. I’ll start training now.”

He leaned in just a little, forearms resting on the table, lowering his voice the way he had a habit of doing when something mattered.

“And hey,” he added, softer, “thank you for letting me like you like this. No costumes. No trying. Just… you.”

Her comment about softness made something in him still. Not heavy—just real. He glanced at her hand flexing in his, then back to her face, thumb brushing once over her fingers before they’d let go for the server.

“I don’t think the world’s ever very good at handing that stuff out,” he said quietly. “I think people kind of… make it for each other when they can.”

The Hallmark line made him grin, full and unguarded.

“Grumpy city guy?” he protested lightly. “I’ll have you know I’m at least mildly charming. And if there’s maple syrup involved, I’m already halfway convinced.”

When her foot found his again, he didn’t miss a beat—just nudged back, easy and deliberate, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“For the record,” he said, glancing down at their plates before looking back up at her, “if I ever do end up in one of those commercials, I want it on record that you’re the reason.”

He lifted his fork, pausing just long enough to meet her eyes again.

“And I’m really glad you’re here. With me. Doing this.”

Not loud.
Not flashy.
Just true.

Nate took a bite, mostly to give himself a second—but his eyes never really left her. He chewed, nodded in approval at the food like it mattered (it did, but not nearly as much as the way she was watching him), then set his fork down with a quiet clink.

“So,” he said, tone easy but curious, “if today was your ideal escape… what does a perfect stay day look like?”

He tilted his head slightly, elbow resting on the table now, posture relaxed in a way that would’ve shocked anyone who knew him a month ago.

“Like—no Nashville, no itinerary. Just Bedford Falls doing its thing.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Are we talking bookstore wandering? Baking something that requires zero measuring because you’ve done it a hundred times? Or full-on disappearing into the clock shop with a sign that says Closed, please do not perceive me?”

He glanced down briefly, then back up at her, voice dropping a touch.

“And don’t say ‘whatever,’” he added with a soft laugh. “I’m genuinely asking. I like knowing how people spend their quiet.”

Her foot brushed his again and this time he caught it gently with his own, just resting there under the table like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I think,” he went on, a little more thoughtful now, “I spent so long chasing noise that I forgot stillness could actually be… full.”

A beat. Then, lighter—because he didn’t want to weigh the moment down.

“Also, I need to know where I rank on the list of people you’d tolerate at said perfect stay day.” His brow lifted, playful. “Am I allowed coffee duty? Background music selector? Silent companion who only speaks when spoken to?”

He smiled at her then—warm, open, a little vulnerable.

“Because I’d sign up for that role.”

Ivy arched a brow, unimpressed in the most loving way possible. “Nate.”

She leaned back just enough to give him a slow once-over, head tilted like she was debating how best to deliver the truth. Her tone stayed light, but the look in her eyes was equal parts fond and matter-of-fact.

“You do realize you’ve already survived about seven of my ‘perfect stay days’ without realizing it, right?”

She reached for her fork, casual, cutting a bite with precision before glancing back up at him.

“Which, frankly, is impressive. Because most people would’ve panicked by hour two.”

The corner of her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile but failing. “It’s not that thrilling of a checklist. Wake up slow. Drink tea. Refuse to be perceived. Lounge with a judgmental cat who occasionally bites toes if you shift too much.”

She popped the bite into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and continued smoothly. “There’s usually records playing. No real plans. Maybe I bake something if the vibe is right. Mostly I just… exist. With no one asking me to do or be anything.”

She picked up her napkin and dabbed her mouth delicately before locking eyes with him again.

“And despite your espresso being a mild war crime for the first two weeks,” she said, lips twitching with amusement, “you’ve actually gotten better. And you never once interrupted my stay-day peace with unnecessary commentary about my tea collection or tried to suggest ‘just one little errand’ or”—she gave him a mock-serious glare—“turned on a podcast at full volume like you were summoning tech bro spirits.”

She set her fork down gently and leaned in, voice low and matter-of-fact.

“So yeah. You’ve already passed. And if you’re still wondering where you rank, let me clarify.”

She tilted her head, her tone dry and direct but laced with unmistakable affection. “You’re signed up for all the roles. Permanently. Background music selector, semi-decent coffee maker, occasional foot warmer, non-disruptive companion... all of it.”

She paused just long enough to let that land before smirking slightly. “And I’m very glad you’re here doing this with me too, but let’s not pretend I’m the one getting the better end of the deal.”

Her gaze softened, just a touch. “My stay days are better with you in them.”

Then, as if she hadn’t just said something that cracked her own ribs open, she picked up her water, took a sip, and gave him a casual little shrug like, no big deal.

“Now eat before you make me start ranking your fork technique,” she added, flashing him a look that was mostly teasing… but just grounded enough to feel like a quiet promise.

She didn’t reach for his hand again, didn’t need to.

He was already there.

Nate froze for half a second—fork halfway to his mouth—like she’d just casually informed him he’d been adopted without his knowledge.

“Oh,” he said, blinking once. Then again. “Oh.”

A faint flush crept up his neck, the kind he absolutely would’ve roasted someone else for, and he cleared his throat like that might help him recover some dignity. It didn’t. He set the fork down carefully, suddenly very aware of his hands.

“Seven,” he repeated, a little stunned, a little amused. “Seven stay days.”
He huffed out a soft laugh and shook his head. “Wow. I really thought I was just… hanging out. Turns out I was being vetted.”

He glanced at her, eyes warm but sheepish, that crooked smile tugging at his mouth like he couldn’t quite help it.

“Honestly? I did panic around hour two,” he admitted. “I just… internalized it. Figured that was growth.”

Then, quieter, more sincere, “But yeah. I liked it. All of it. The records. The silence. The cat judging me like I owed him money. It felt—” He paused, searching. “—easy. In a way I didn’t realize I’d been missing.”

Her list of roles landed fully this time, and he let out a breath that turned into a small, disbelieving laugh.

“Permanent, huh?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… a big commitment. Especially the foot warmer position. I take that responsibility very seriously.”

He met her eyes then, a little bashful but steady.

“And for the record,” he added, “I am getting better at coffee. I watched a video. Two, actually. I just didn’t want to announce it and disrupt the peace.”

When she said her stay days were better with him in them, his smile softened—less joking now, more honest. He picked his fork back up but didn’t eat yet.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Mine too.”

Then, because he was still him, he gestured with the fork toward her plate, brows lifting.

“But if you do start ranking my fork technique, I’m going to need a rubric. I work best with clear expectations.”

He finally took a bite, eyes still on her, and added around it, amused and a little proud:

“Also—I’m really glad I passed.”

Nate chewed, swallowed, then let out a quiet breath through his nose—something between a laugh and a steadying exhale—like he was still recalibrating to the fact that she’d just folded him into her life so casually it felt ceremonial.

He set his fork down again, unable to help himself.

“Can I just say,” he started, voice low and earnest, “I didn’t realize how much I needed permission to exist like that. Stay days. No expectations. No noise. No… proving anything.”

He glanced down at the table, thumb brushing the edge of his plate, then back up at her—eyes warm, a little vulnerable in a way that surprised even him.

“I think I’ve been living like everything had to earn its place. Rest included. Silence included.” A small, self-aware smile tugged at his mouth. “You make it feel like it’s allowed. Like it’s not laziness or failure—it’s just… life.”

He shifted in his chair, a bit of that embarrassment creeping back in, shoulders lifting slightly.

“And for what it’s worth, being signed up for all roles permanently?” he added, lighter now. “Kind of the best contract I’ve ever entered into. No fine print. No exit interview. Just tea and records and apparently learning to bake when the vibe is right.”

He glanced at her plate again, then at his own, raising his fork in a small salute.

“I promise I’ll eat,” he said, amused. “I just needed a second to not screw this up by pretending I’m cooler than I am.”

His gaze softened, lingering on her face—the ease, the certainty, the way she said big things like they were facts, not declarations.

“And Ivy?” he added quietly. “I’m really glad I’m here too. Doing this. With you.”

Then—because she’d told him to—he finally took another bite, this time without overthinking it, the corner of his mouth lifting like he’d decided to let himself stay exactly where he was.

Ivy didn’t look away from him, even as she picked up her fork again and took a slow, thoughtful bite—chewing like it gave her time to sort through the words sitting at the back of her tongue.

It wasn’t that she needed to think hard about how she felt.

She just wanted to say it clearly. No confusion. No space for doubt.

Once she’d swallowed, she set her fork down and rested her fingers lightly beside her plate, gaze still steady on his.

“Well,” she said dryly, lips curving with quiet amusement, “it’s not like you had many options.”

She let the words hang there for a beat, then softened the jab with a tilt of her head. “The loft doesn’t have a ton of square footage. And you were smart enough to avoid wandering into the clock shop unaccompanied, so—really, your choices were: couch, kitchen, or cat-infested armchair.”

Her foot nudged his under the table again—not playfully this time, just a light, anchoring press. Honest. Present.

“But you stayed,” she added, voice dipping lower. “Even when you could’ve gone out. Explored. Found distractions. You didn’t.”

She shrugged, almost like it didn’t matter. But it did.

“I noticed.”

A breath, then another.

“And just so we’re clear—yeah. Permanent.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “That’s the only thing I’m interested in these days. I’m not here to waste time playing at maybe.”

Her voice wasn’t sharp—it was simply sure. Certain in a way only someone who’d spent years learning the difference between peace and performance could be.

She took a single bite, slow and unbothered—just enough to let the words settle without letting them go quiet. Then she set her fork back down, reaching for her water glass as she looked at him again.

Her fingers curved around the glass, but her gaze didn’t leave his.

“Okay,” she said lightly, setting it aside again and folding her hands in her lap. “So if I’ve accidentally converted you to the stay-day lifestyle, I want to know what your version looked like before.”

Her brow lifted, curious but affectionate.

“Back in New York—did you have a version of it? A favorite kind of day where you weren’t trying to impress anyone or win anything? Just you and the city, no obligations. What did that look like?”

She leaned in slightly, her smile tilting with just enough tease to be flirty.

“And if the answer is Wall Street brunch followed by networking in a rooftop lounge, you’re getting demoted to decaf duty.”

She didn’t need him to be soft all the time. But she loved when he was honest.

And more than that—she loved that he let her be the one he was honest with.